A Threnody for Life
by Bonny Jinchuriki
Summary: A Zabini by birth. In reality, a muggle's soul transmigrated. Time to make things go my own way. Life as a wizard: it won't be easy. Fixed Pairing: Harmony. Self-insert.
1. Chapter 1: Genesis

A/N: Well, here I am again. After a long break of disliking writing fanfiction and enjoying fanfiction written by other authors. Perhaps I might leave again, leaving all my (meagre) readers hanging. I had this idea of writing a SI fic after I discussed some aspects of Harry Potter with a friend of mine. I've read amazing SI fics like Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen. And so I bring to you this. I hope you enjoy. Now, you may believe that I am attempting to make my character as over-powered as possible after reading this first chapter. Do note that my character has the benefit of a fully-developed and mature mind. As Less Wrong states:

"First Law of Fanfiction: If you do anything to increase the protagonist's power, or make their life easier, you must also amplify their opponent or add extra difficulties to their life. **You can't make Frodo a Jedi unless you give Sauron the Death Star**. Otherwise, even if it is well-written in all other ways, your story will suck because the reader will know to expect an unending string of easy victories, leading them to neither wonder or care about what happens next. The Mary Sue is not defined by her power being too strong, but by her challenges being too easily overcome."

I do not want to write a sub-par fic if I continue writing this in the long run.

This is unbeta'ed, so there will be errors.

This fic will be rated T for now, but I may raise it later.

With that solemn statement, welcome to A Threnody for Life. Do stay a while.

XxXxX

My first memories were not of that traumatic experience – birth – where I breathed air for the first time and expelled fluid from my insides; where I was pulled out of a comfortable liquid-filled capsule into the lukewarm atmosphere.

They went much further back. I remembered cars. People's faces. Train whistles. The ticking of clocks. Love and hatred. Everything bundled together by an inexplicable fragrance – that of attar of roses, but less artificial in nature.

But why? Why would I remember all of that if I am now but a mere babe, not five minutes from my time of birth, wrapped in a warm cloth and handed over to my mother – my new mother – for the very first time?

There were words to describe the possibilities.

The Hindus spoke of _Reincarnation_.

The Buddhists spoke of _Samsara_, that cycle of life and death only a few could escape forever. One I was perhaps subject to.

Poe and Nietzsche, the twin pillars that held up both my literary and philosophical views, spoke of _metempsychosis_, transmigration of the soul.

Did I die in my previous life before I came here? I knew only shades of grey, vague notions that amount to nothing whatsoever when I make any attempt to concretize them. Everything was blurred, as if I were gazing at the other side of a misted-up looking-glass.

There I was, an adult trapped in an infant body. What could I do but cry out loud? My mind held little power over my juvenile, fragile form. I would react as a baby would, though I was as fully cognizant of my surroundings as my body would allow.

I was afraid then. I was frightened then. But as the days slowly passed, a new sensation, one not consonant with my very being made itself present. I had felt it before, but it was not as omnipresent as it was now. I could feel it in the air, in my very bones and organs. It was peculiar and irritating, I cried much in my first year of a new life. I could not help but try to push it away, assert my control over that strange sensation with my slowly awakening mind to ensure that I would no longer have an alien presence wrapped around every part of me. I learnt to suppress my reactions, to get accustomed to that eerie feeling that pervaded all of existence. It was everywhere.

I learnt to accept it even as I interacted with another infant that I later learnt was my step-brother. And it was his name that set alarm bells ringing furiously in my ennui-afflicted mind.

_**Blaise Zabini.**_

I immediately stopped crying. My caretaker assumed that the presence of another infant soothed me.

I _knew_ that name. I read every novel concerning the Potterverse that was written by Rowling when I was only a teenager in my previous life. Was I truly in the Potterverse now, or was I simply in a reality where a person named Blaise Zabini existed? I could not make a general conclusion from one piece of evidence. I had to know more.

And so I spoke my first words as early as possible, and made sure that I displayed a capacity for accomplishing much more than my peers could. As a so-called child prodigy, I had access to more resources.

I had to accept that I was in the Potterverse when, among other startling things, the words "Wingardium Leviosa", accompanied by the swish and flick of a wand, made me float upwards.

XxXxX

At age five, I knew and had decided on the following.

The version of the Potterverse I was in was pretty much canon, with the exception of my presence.

My name. Evan Zabini. My new father, one of Blaise's mother's multiple husbands, was of Welsh origin, and died when I was just two.

I was apparently a pureblood. Not that I was too concerned about it, but it would make my self-assigned task of befriending certain individuals – Harry Potter, Hermione Granger for instance – harder as I would be perceived as one of the blood purists.

The strange sensation was actually magic. Having lived a life without magic, I was exceptionally sensitive to it.

I would ensure that I enjoyed myself (before attempting to fix everything that went wrong, naturally). I had, as so many others, dreamt of actually being in this reality. And I had every intention of playing around with everything.

But what did I need to do first before I could enjoy myself? I had to _study_. My memories were an incalculable advantage. But I would forget them in time. However, they could be retrieved more easily than if I had lost them via Obliviation. The method? Occlumency. I had to protect them. I could not risk anyone finding out anything about myself. I could not risk losing them either.

Occlumency would protect them, and why not learn Legilimency with it? Another advantage to be added to my fore-knowledge. Normally, one as young as I was would not be able to learn both Arts. But I had the advantage of having an adult mind, one more suited to focus and patience.

Being a scion of the Zabini family had its benefits. All pureblood families had a niche of some sort – even the Weasleys had one before they sunk into near-poverty – and the Zabini family was not an exception. They were smugglers. Professional purveyors of illegal goods and services in and out of the United Kingdom, Ireland and Continental Europe. It was not a monopoly, but it was a lucrative trade that afforded much profit to make the Zabinis one of the richer European families.

I studied the theory for both beforehand in the small library of the Zabini residence. It helped that I was already immensely bored, and would find even the likes of Adam Smith's _The Wealth of Nations_ deeply fascinating. I learnt meditation techniques and practiced them liberally, to the extent that Blaise had taken to using an antique walking stick to awaken me from a trance to play with him.

When I turned six, I approached my mother about learning the practical aspects of Legilimency and Occlumency. She promptly cast the Legilimens spell on myself and was rather surprised to find a relatively solid barrier – though one that would give way to moderate mental prodding – barring her way to my mind. I had not progressed as far as creating my own personal mindscape, but it was a start.

To my surprise, she did not question my desire to learn Legilimency. Blaise would be her heir to all that she controlled, while I would serve the dual role of being the acclaimed prodigy, attracting people's attention away from Blaise, who would have a greater degree of freedom, and spare, if Blaise were to have an unfortunate incident. Legilimency was useful, and no one could deny its benefits. I simply ignored the questionable morality of using it.

I would visit Ollivander's the day after to obtain my wand. One could not practice Legilimency without a wand, after all.


	2. Chapter 2: A Day of Wands and Minds

A/N: Response was slightly encouraging (no reviews, though that may be because of the boring start), so I'm going on. Not that I expected much in the beginning. Here we go! More development, but I'll be adding in some elaboration on certain aspects of the Potterverse. If I have inadvertedly copied anyone, please inform me.

Note: I believe that the official exchange for Galleons to Pounds is too low (Seriously? A thousand galleons (i.e. 5000 pounds) just for winning a life-threatening tournament?). As such, I will be using the more accurate rate of 1 Galleon ≡ 50 pounds (as estimated in Lesswrong's HPMOR.) and adjusting the prices to more accurately reflect their true value as I see fit.

I invent some information below, and they do not clash with canon intentionally.

Facts about the wand are from the Harry Potter wiki.

Do try to review. It would make my day… along with increasing the frequency of updates.

Oh, and I do not own Harry Potter.

XxXxX

"Mother, is this Ollivander's?"

"Yes."

A simple word, one full of possible connotations, their number staggering.

She left me there with instructions to visit Fortesque's after receiving my wand, knowing that I could deal with Garrick Wandcrafter easily enough. After all, I had some experience in verbal sparring with my mother's acquaintances (one did not use the word 'Friend' amongst Purebloods, after all).

A ring of the bell above the door, just below the sign ('Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.!'), and I entered that quasi-sacred enclosure, where the ur-Wandcrafter of England had once dwelt within.

"Evan Zabini. A pleasure to meet you years before your assigned time."

"Mister Ollivander."

A nod and a small smile that conveyed nervousness and barely restrained excitement (I was, after all, going to receive my wand. Something I had dreamed of since I read Rowling's works when I was a child. My dream was coming true!) Was all that was needed to convince Ollivander to start searching for my wand.

I eagerly gazed around, drinking in the _feeling_ of wands thrumming everywhere within their dusty boxes, waiting for young wizards to claim and complete them. I reveled in the warmth of their magics, each one conveying a new idea that disappeared as soon as Ollivander handed me a wand to try.

And then it happened.

That magical moment where I was finally complete.

A sensation of liquid ecstasy rushed through my veins, making my toes curl (in a non-sexual way) and my hair stand on end, even as the wand emitted a startling display of fireworks reminiscent of Gandalf's at Bilbo's Eleventy-One birthday.

"Fourteen inches. Long for your age, but still as indestructible as any other wand. A core of Dragon Heartstring, Evan. Somewhat temperamental. Prone to accidents – you'll have an interesting time, I suppose. And redwood? Fascinating. It has a reputation for bringing good fortune to its owner. As is usually the case with wandlore, dear boy, the general populace have the truth back to front: redwood wands are not themselves lucky, but are strongly attracted to witches and wizards who already possess the admirable ability to fall on their feet, to make the right choice, to snatch advantage from catastrophe. I expect you to have a _very_ interesting life, Evan. Send me letters sometime, Evan. You have a fascinating imagination. One might even say you would write of other-wordly things."

A pause in my heartbeat. I maintained my composure.

I hadn't even detected It had never occurred to me that the reason that Ollivander knew who everyone entering his establishment was was because he knew Legilimency.

A wink.

"Don't worry, I won't tell. Though I'll be reinforcing my shop soon enough, Evan. Tell me more next time."

I left his store hurriedly after practically throwing the seven galleons at him.

XxXxX

It didn't take much to hire a top-tier instructor for the two arts. They were often intertwined, each being the bane of the other. As such, it was much in demand, and it wasn't unusual for purebloods – or any family with a respectable fortune, for that matter – to have learnt at least the basics of Occlumency before they went to Hogwarts for the very first time. My request was only unusual in that I was roughly half the age of the average child that learnt Occlumency.

The fees were relatively low – approximately 46 Galleons a month. The Zabinis were multi-millionaires, but never went above eight digits. They weren't one of the richest – that title went to the Malfoys, with a net worth of approximately 156 million Galleons (and perhaps a little more) – but they did have access to certain goods and services that were not exactly legal or easy to find.

Each Pureblood family had a niche. The Malfoys made their fortune in politics. They had deep links to the line of Charlemagne, which allowed them prestige and wealth, being involved in the rise and fall of empires and nations in Europe over the ages. The Blacks traded in knowledge and information. Their library was second to none – all manner of incunabula, pamphlets and arcane tomes could be found there. It was most notable for planting spies as amanuenses in every major European court, recording everything in ink on parchment. The Zabinis? Smuggling. It was, perhaps, an uncouth occupation, but one that was lucrative. Many in Europe needed something that wasn't readily available. Healers at St. Mungo's needed borderline Dark potions (as defined by the British Ministry), and asked no questions when provided them for a sum of gold. Durmstrang taught the Dark Arts, both basic and advanced, and hence was a major customer of the Zabinis.  
What of the Light families then? They pursued more reputable pursuits. The Potters were noted patrons of the Arts – most of the distinguished authors, composers and artists in Western Europe had been influenced by them in one way or another. The Dumbledores, before their war with the Dark Side reduced them to a remnant, made their fortune in farming. Agriculture was necessary for the sustained development of a nation, and though it may have been sneered at in higher circles, the Purebloods of Europe politely avoided any mention of the Dumbledores' occupation and accepted them as one of their own. The farming tradition may have had a hand in Aberforth's less than healthy preoccupation with goats.

The Mind Arts instructor, going only by the name of Straka, was hired for a smaller fee than normal in order to repay a favour my mother (I was getting used to calling her that, even though it felt strange and disrespectful to the memory of my First Mother) had done him. He would have already sworn the necessary Unbreakable Vows, preventing him from revealing _any _of my secrets to anyone except myself, not shielding or hiding the memories to be erased through Obliviation, and from changing my mind in any negative way – as defined by myself. I added that clause myself. I could not let anyone know about my secrets. As a precaution, he would submit to Obliviation by a trusted family member.

We entered a room that was warded against all forms of eavesdropping (excluding the head of the Zabini family). The first ten minutes were spent gauging my progress in Occlumency. I spent the next five minutes watching Straka attempting to rationalize the existence of another world, one where Harry Potter was simply a book series and where he did not exist. It was rather amusing, but it was wasting my time. I _had _to be ready by the time I entered Hogwarts. Dumbledore was one of the most proficient Legilimens in the _world_. Snape was not acknowledged as a master, but the subtlety and precision of his attacks were nothing to sneer at.

Half of the time was spent attempting to parry his repeated attacks against my mind. This was the fastest way to develop a strong shield. Harry Potter had failed with Snape because of the intense antagonistic relationship between them. The emotions made their mental facilities weak. It did not help that Snape abandoned subtlety for brute force. It appeared to have stopped short of causing damage to his mind, as my instructor told me after viewing a memory of me reading about that. The mind, he would say, was a delicate thing, something that could break apart with the right words, wand motions and creativity.

Legilimency, though, was much more interesting. Straka was renowned as a master of the Mind Arts in Continental Europe, and this was displayed by his manifestation of a complete mindscape. I could not hope to compete with him, and as such had to simply practice the Legilimency spell until I could cast it without a wand, while improving my proficiency at combating the mind's natural and contrived mental defenses, all the while endeavoring to taste of my target's surface thoughts, those thoughts that came into existence with each moment.

My mindscape began as a simple room. White, blinding white. A chair in the middle for me to sit and feel everything about it in order to exert my will over it.

When it was over, he tipped his hat to me, having gleamed part of my audacious plan for the world we were now in, and submitted to the Obliviation before turning on the spot, Disapparating into some unknown place.

The progress was small, but progress was progress.

XxXxX

Next chapter: More mindscape and a new art to study.


	3. Chapter 3: The Ball: Some interactions

A/N: Thank you to my very first reviewer, in caverns dark, for submitting a rather useful review. He makes some excellent points which I'd like to address here in this Author's Note.

**Inspiration:** I personally haven't read that fanfiction he mentioned (In Bad Faith), but I will say that my main inspiration for writing this fanfiction would be Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen.

**Time in the story: **I did not make much mention of the passage of time/time in general except for the terms 'younger' and others. I have overlooked that, and I will be adding times. Whenever I feel that it is necessary, of course.

**Occlumency: **Now, if I recall correctly, the only way one could actually overcome Obliviation was through torture (see the Bertha Jorkins affair). Another one was _sort-of _implied – Lockhart recovering part of his self after spending time in a ward for long-term mental patients. And I have to clarify, the memories my OC have were not willingly shown to Straka, they were _gleamed_ from when Straka tested the mental shields. And for the purposes of this fanfiction, I will mandate that, even with the aid of a master of the Mind Arts, you will take an extremely long time to remember what has been forgotten. Torture will significantly shorten this period of time, but you will not retrieve everything. The mind will be broken in the process, and parts of the Obliviated memories will be lost. I have added another clause to the Unbreakable Vow such that Obliviation will actually work on him – I am following the convention that a sufficiently strong Occlumens can resist Obliviation, though not Obliviation on the level of Lockhart.

**Unbreakable Vow: **He didn't mention this, but I'd like to clarify. In this AU, I will say that it is really unbreakable with the exception of a Mary Sue-esque spell/power. Which will NOT be happening here. Specifically, you can think about the secret, but you can't think about giving it away in any manner possible. No method, convoluted or simple, will work. Crimestop, lassies and gents. Thoughtcrime is giving away the secret, and that's impossible with Crimestop. Imperius? Your magic will kill you if you cannot resist it. Resurrection Stone? Yes, if the wielder of the Stone is more magically powerful than the ghost's magic. The ghost is bound to obey you, but his magic will resist you.

'**Emptiness' of the story:** in caverns dark mentioned that I gave nothing about the interaction of my character with others (Examples he stated were Blaise, my mother – why did I dislike my new mother? What is she like? What does she do? Things like that), though with the exception of Ollivander. And it was already pretty short to begin with. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but he wants to see more about other people, not just my character's internal monologue for two straight chapters.

Allow me to say that I did plan to do something like that _eventually_, but it seems that having it now is required for a story to make it. I dislike dialogue, but I will add them, starting with this chapter. I have certain difficulties in interacting with people (which might just be why I dislike dialogue). As a consequence, I will be speeding up the pace, and I will not elaborate on the development of some of my OC's skills. Do try not to complain about that.

So apologies for that. Also, apologies for doing too much elaboration/exposition on the world I'm trying to create. I will readily admit that to be a fault of mine: I often ramble on and on about topics I'm interested in.

If you have any more questions, feel free to ask them in a PM or, preferably, a review. I will answer them in the next chapter if I feel that everyone should know. Otherwise, you'll get them in a PM.

Children may appear to develop faster than in the real world. My answer is, a quote by McGonagall from HPMOR in its first few chapters: "Magic."

If I inadvertently represent anything incorrectly, please accept my apologies. Do not rant at me. I will not be pleased. Send me a PM so that I can fix it.

I do not own Harry Potter.

On with the chapter!

_Italic: Thoughts_

XxXxX

**The Harry Potter Celebratory Ball, 31 October 1988 (Malfoy Manor, the Abraxas Chamber)**

**Age: Eight**

A fancy name for a richly-decorated room the size of a master bedroom, with a lit brick fireplace, a temperature-controlled environment and chaise lounges located around one crystal coffee table, glowing an eerie Slytherin green in the light of the flames, in front of the table. Its usual purpose was for entertaining valued guests privately, but today it was where the latest generation of the major Purebloods (Exceptions were made for notable Half-blood families) convened, whether Light, Dark or Neutral. Only the Black and Potter families remained unrepresented.

Draco Malfoy sat in the place of pride, the sole occupant of a lounge that faced the fireplace directly, as was his right as heir of the host family. His two retainers, Crabbe and Goyle, would stand behind him in the shadows, ready to serve his every need. The Crabbe and Goyle families once were _theow_ and _esne_ – serfs – to the Malfoy family, but now served as freemen – or rather, as free as blood-bound servants could be.

Around him were the Dark families – Greengrass, Nott, Parkinson, et cetera –, followed by the Neutrals – Zabini being the most notable – and lastly, on the lounges closest to the fire, the Light families – Longbottom, Abbott, Bones and so on.

Tonight was a night for neutrality – all families had agreed to maintain a pretense of civility as a mark of respect for those lost in the First War against Voldemort. Whether Death Eaters or Light-siders.

I was one of the few that actually had a wand – Draco, naturally, had one – and was idly twirling it around my small fingers, eyes half-closed as Draco finally finished his introductory speech (which sounded rather pretentious, though few of those present were of that opinion), secretly delighting in the looks of envy sent by a few.

"… And now allow me to propose a toast to Harry Potter, Scion of House Potter, for preventing further casualties in the First War."

We each raised our glass of finest Butterbeer.

"Drinc Hael!"

"Iechyd da!"

"To Harry Potter!"

"Sláine!"

"Santé!"

Each represented our families' origins – The first was for those of the Saxons, spoken in Old English. The second was for mine: Welsh. The third was for those that chose to take a modern stance (as taught by their parents). The fourth was Irish, and the last French. Malfoy spoke it alone, for though the English and French had a traditional rivalry, their connection with Charlemagne superseded that.

After the formalities were over, each of us relaxed, sinking back into the lounges, some walking over to others to start a conversation. This was the time for forming 'friendships', unofficial alliances that might become official in the distant future. After all, this was the first time we had all gathered. Each of us had been coached in the formal, profound terminology of politics, though we were apt to slip into normal talk once in a while due to our young age.

_This is my chance to ingratiate myself with some of them._

Blaise nodded at me, before walking over to Draco. He was, after all, the Zabini heir to all of the business, and the Malfoys were regular customers.

I nonchalantly walked over to the Longbottom heir, who was looking slightly peaky, then sat down beside him. Neville had already started developing a lack of self-confidence; it could be seen in his slightly panicked countenance. He had never done anything like this, even though he had had extensive lessons.

"I do believe we haven't met before. Evan Zabini. And you are…?"

I stuck out my hand, a slight smile on my face.

"Neville Longbottom." He spoke his name a little too hastily, his mouth snapping shut as he uttered the last syllable. He took my hand – a tremor could be detected – and shook it before swiftly letting it go. I ignored it.

"Ah, yes. Good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you – good things, Mother says. Aren't you the one that managed to deal with a Devil's Snare by yourself?"

_Start with a topic he's interested in. Neville's a Herbology prodigy, and he should loosen up._

His face immediately brightened up, a slight blush forming. His next words carried enthusiasm and the confidence of one who knew what he was talking about.

"Yes, it was quite difficult actually. I was in the greenhouse trimming one of my Bonsai trees – they're imported from Nippon, apparently, a gift for my sixth birthday – when the Devil's Snare snuck up on me. I knew what they could do, so I didn't resist them. It was a little tight though…"

He trailed off as he was reminded about his own pudgy self, insecurity returning. Was it because he was raised by a half-senile old woman and continuously compared with two over-performing parents by all he met? I continued to smile, and gently encouraged him to continue speaking about the incident.

"Well, I managed to grab a bottle of liquid fire – the ones that come with a full-body Flame-Freezing charm – and opened it over the Devil's Snare. There was a horrible screeching sound, and it let me go. It had grown all over the greenhouse door though, and I couldn't get out. I knew that valerian roots could make someone sleepy, since I tried eating one myself, so I grabbed a few, mashed them up and stabbed the Devil's Snare with a pair of shears, then pushed the mashed-up roots into the wound. Took a long time, but it eventually stopped trying to grab me. I still don't know why it worked though. Might be because of the fire. I first extinguished it with some water from the baobab tree – Grand-uncle had had it for a long time, so I didn't want to hurt his feelings – and cut my way out. Grandmother was so proud, she said that I was living up to the name of Longbottom, and she got me my own wand! Look!"

One could clearly see Neville was bursting to show off his wand, but held back due to his own shyness. I continued to smile, though I was beginning to show some strain as he continued. This was good though – Neville was so pre-occupied by his tale that he had not noticed a small audience gathering around him.

"Unicorn hair, thirteen inches, cherry wood! She even taught me a spell to clean myself after a session in the greenhouse." He waved it around excitedly, then took his glass of Butterbeer and poured a little on his robes.

"Scourgify!"

His wand moved in a well-practiced S-shape, and the Butterbeer stain immediately disappeared. The small audience clapped, and he was instantly struck dumb, having only just been made aware of the listeners. I decided to spare him from having to speak to the others.

"That's great! You must be quite good at Herbology! I'm not too good in that myself – I can't tell a tree from a Quidditch broom myself."

Some polite laughter at the joke, then several made their introductions to Neville.

"Hi! I'm Hannah Abbott."

"Ernest Macmillian. Call me Ernie, everyone does that."

"Susan Bones. My auntie's Amelia Bones, she sometimes has tea with your grandmother."

_Neville's getting overwhelmed. Best turn their attention to me._

I nudged Neville, who moved to the side of the couch, blindly obeying me as he was caught up in a whirlwind of introductions, replying with the same phrase over and over again.

"Alright," I spoke loudly, drawing their attention, "my name's Evan. Evan Zabini. I'm about as good in Ancient Runes as Neville is in Herbology. Perhaps you'd like a demonstration? "

Magic spells were a dime a dozen these days for the children; they could not cast more than a few, but they had seen their parents and parents' friends do it at almost every opportunity. They had applauded for Neville because he had managed to cast a spell on the first try (doing so was impressive enough for them, even though he had been practicing it for quite some time), and because of him having his own wand.

Ancient Runes though? They had never seen it in action before. The art of manipulating symbols and concepts was one that few pursued. The difficulty of learning different rune sets, of learning the myriad concepts behind even one glyph or rune and of using them together to create effects that could replicate magic or go beyond it did not endear it to most. In Hogwarts, the students were taught mostly theory – practical exams involved students creating simple strings of symbols to accomplish a mundane purpose. Very few students wanted to do more than that, and most took it for the relatively easy OWL and NEWT grade. Most Dark Lords chose not to pursue it, merely learning but a little to supplement their magic and rituals. It would take too long to learn to such a degree that one could actively use it in their battles with the Light.

But for me? Ancient Runes was _fascinating._ I had had some experience in Old English and its forebears, having studied them in my leisure time when I was an undergraduate in a university. It helped that I had access to texts and translations. And I could view the runes as abstract entities with my passion for pure mathematics and logic, combining them in different ways the same way I had once did with abstruse mathematical symbols in my first life. I was no _Gödel_ though.

It also helped that each Rune had countless stories about it. I loved reading.

The others eagerly nodded their heads, gathering around me. I caught Neville's eye and winked at him before taking out a piece of parchment from my pocket, then withdrawing my prized Occamy quill, this year's birthday present from my mother, and a bottle of ink derived from a high-quality Chinese inkstick with the fragrance of sandalwood, enchanted to have the properties of an Everlasting Elixir and to provide an unparalleled smoothness. It cost me a hundred galleons – the entirety of my birthday allowance – but writing with it was such a pleasure that I counted them well spent.

_Elder Futhark for this one. The core of the sigil. Kaunan. Torch or beacon. I want to produce light, but not too much, so I cannot use Sowilo, the sun. Three is the number of the roots of Yggdrasil. Sowilo, the circling wheel, and drawn thrice round Kaunan. To complete the trinity, Naudiz. __Nauðr gerer næppa koste, as the Old Icelandic rune poem goes. Constraint gives scant choice. To ensure control over the light, and to limit what I can do with it._

A sphere of dim light intensity appeared above the parchment, eliciting startled gasps and drawing stares from all around. I did not have anything but myself to sustain the reaction, and so I could feel my own magic sinking into the sphere bit by bit. I could have tried to create it with only _Kaunan_, but I lacked the precise control required to conform the concepts the rune summoned to what I wanted. It would have been too much, not to mention too taxing. Finding a source of energy would be for later.

_Isaz. Ice. Winter. The end of the seasons, the season that spells death for many. Endings. __Yet it provides the foundation for a new beginning. Odin used it to bind Rindr, mother of __Váli, slayer of__Höðr. So the tales go._

I drew a sharp, linear slash across the sigil after allowing the others to have their fill of it, touching it gingerly and snatching their hands back before they gained more confidence and start trying to grasp it. The rune quenched the light, and I crumpled the piece of parchment before placing all of my materials back into my pocket.

"Alright, that's enough of that."

XxXxX

"Aida, how are your two sons?"

The sultry matriarch, still looking as alluring as she was a decade ago, smiled slightly before answering her long-time friend, Narcissa Malfoy.

"Fine, thank you. Blaise is coming along nicely. He's paying attention in his lessons, and he's developed an interest in Quidditch – don't all boys do? He's had to drag Evan away from his books every time he wants a game," the ladies shared a small laugh before Aida continued, "and Evan just lets him do that. Evan's been simply wonderful; he's already learning more than just first-year spells. I must show you some of his runic works during one of your tea sessions. Oh! That reminds me. What kind of tea have you imported from far-away lands, Cissy?"

"_Tiěguānyīn__._"

The three Chinese words were pronounced with a high degree of accuracy, attesting to her deep interest in the tea world.

"A delight for the taste buds. Aida, I have to thank you for introducing me to such new varieties of tea. Earl Grey does get a tad boring after some time, after all."

"No need to thank me, Cissy – I just _had_ to do something for you after your little Draco helped Evan out when he was in a spot of bother."

Narcissa beamed as Aida reminded her of that incident.

"Well, Lucius and I _do_ have to teach Draco something about life and living, after all – helping one of his friends is something we encourage. I still remember how delightfully funny Evan looked after he was pulled out of the water by Draco. Drenched and covered in Gillyweed!"

She left it unsaid that it could be used as a form of leverage over the helped. Both ladies knew very well that Draco was too young to be able to think of something like that most of the time; this reminder was just part of a game they had played with each other since their time at Hogwarts.

"Haven't you forgotten that Draco makes mistakes too? Why…"

XxXxX

"Evan, would you mind staying for just a moment? I need to discuss something with you."

Towards the end of the ball, Draco tapped my shoulder even as the others prepared to leave, donning their tailored dress robes, each made of a variety of materials, including silk enchanted with warming charms, Malfoy's being made of the winter coat of the ermine. Though it was only mid-Autumn, there had already been a large dip in the temperature.

I motioned for Blaise to leave me with him, expecting that it was the usual 'meeting' Draco would have with his 'friends' in order to show that they had, in some way, a modicum of importance to the Malfoy family. He was imitating Lucius at any public gathering every now and then, since it had worked for his father, he automatically assumed that it would work for him. A rather large assumption, since it relied on the other children being observant and insightful enough to come to that conclusion.

We moved to the balcony through a door in the Abraxas Chamber, using the upturned collar of our robes to protect our faces from the cold autumn wind. He closed the door before turning to me, a serious expression that looked slightly comical fixed onto his face.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I was admittedly dumb-founded for a moment.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're trying to befriend Longbottom. Do you know who he is?"

"Other than a natural at Herbology?"

Draco raised his voice after ensuring that no one was around to hear him.

"He's practically… a Squib at everything else!"

"And?"

"You know what they say about his grandmother. She fraternises with Dumbledore, that muggle-loving fool."

By then, I had regained my composure, and merely raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be concerned?"

"You should be! The Zabinis have been close to the Malfoys for more than a century. You can't just do something like that!"

I smirked to myself. This would be an opportunity to change his beliefs – at least marginally.

"Draco, listen to me. Your father has taught you about politics, n'est-ce pas? Now, think about it, why would I try to do something like that?"

He frowned, having been caught off-guard by my non-denial of his accusation.

"I think… it's about connections, isn't it?"

"Correct!" I slapped him on the back; we were close enough that something like that wouldn't bother him.

"By befriending Neville, I am maintaining the Zabinis' neutrality. We cater to both sides. We are not wholly on the Malfoys' side. Blaise is the heir, and he's expected to be seen as leaning towards your faction. I am known for being a genius, and I need to balance Blaise out somehow. Longbottom is a respected name, and Neville accepting me as a friend will raise my standing in the eyes of the Light. Now, what do you think of Muggles?"

He made a surprisingly good attempt at emulating his father's way of expressing scorn when discussing a particularly distasteful topic.

"Muggles? Why do we even bother about them?"

"James Potter married a Muggle-born. Lily Potter was a prodigy at Charms. Harry Potter is Half-blood. Do you agree that to defeat the Dark Lord, Harry Potter had to be extremely powerful? Even though his mother was a –"

"Mudblood?"

I let some of my distaste for that term show on my face.

"Please don't speak that word in my presence," I raised a hand to forestall his protests before continuing, "We are sons of the most powerful Pureblood families in England. We are not plebeians – that's common citizens – that use crude language at a whim. 'Mudblood' is vulgar and uncouth – using it is unbecoming of us. Use 'Muggle-born', if only to give an impression of being polite. We know that some Muggle-borns can be useful for our own purposes. So having them happy would allow us to use them more easily. Understand?"

Draco slowly nodded, before opening the door and gesturing for me to enter the Manor.

"I'll… think about it."

I knew he would. Draco had been raised to believe that Muggles were the worst breed of creatures, and that being a Malfoy meant that he was in the higher echelons of Purebloods; his immense pride in his name and standing was cultivated carefully by his parents and relatives. The twain would clash with each other when a suitable catalyst – in this case, my few sentences – presented itself, and it would force him to think more than he usually did. If he had any questions, he would seek his father's help. It was only natural. It would allow Lucius Malfoy to see that I was more perceptive than an average Pureblood. As to whether raising his interest in me was wise or foolish, only time would tell. My words would not persuade him to ban all interaction between me and Draco. He would know me to be careful enough that I did not voice my true views, which could be more sympathetic to Muggles than was acceptable to people of his ilk.

"Goodbye, Draco. See you tomorrow."

XxXxX

Well, that's that. See you next time!


	4. Chapter 4: The Wild Hunt

A/N: Thanks to in caverns dark again for being the only reviewer. If this is a pattern (inductively speaking) then I don't like where it's going. I'll still write though.

Apologies for the one-month absence: I have recently re-discovered Killing Floor, and it has been thoroughly occupying my time.

Oh, and I like the occasional bit of alliteration.

Any complaints about OP characters will be addressed in the next chapter (or in a PM, if it is a minor issue) when I receive them.

So: I do not own Harry Potter.

For the purposes of this fiction, I shall be using the reason of _artistic license_, since I feel that some real-life texts are inadequate (and also because I'm simply too lazy). I have drawn on both Hellboy and myths for part of this chapter.

Thoughts: _Italics_

XxXxX

**After the Ball.**

If one were to enter the Headmaster's Office in Hogwarts after the spiraling staircase, one would not immediately notice a massive, tattered incunabulum placed on a marble plinth worn away by time and corrosive magic, as it blended in perfectly with the wall behind it, and the exotic and glimmering contraptions located everywhere would only contribute to the unnoticeability of the tome.

It was one of the most important artefacts Hogwarts held, dating back to the time of the Founders.

It was the Book in which all Hogwarts students' names – past, present and prospective – were recorded. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Wizard with a Title too Many, was contemplating a few names in the Book. Nearby, Fawkes sang softly, his soothing song succouring the somnolent schoolmaster, providing him the strength to continue his train of thought through the tiresome tiredness that troubled him. The portraits of the past headmasters and headmistresses, all bound to obey the Headmaster's every command, either slept in their chintz armchairs or argued over minutiae in most everything.

_So. Harry Potter._

Having just left the Ball, using his old age as an excuse to retire for the night and review the information he had gained about the new children of the Families, Albus Dumbledore's mind was naturally on the mysterious star of the Ball that never showed up.

_Still going nicely. The Dursleys have been treating him badly, as per Arabella's reports. No encounters with any wizards or witches except Dedalus. Not anything to worry about – that old boy's harmless. He will be nice and broken once he reaches Hogwarts. It will be child's play to guide him towards the right path. The Prophecy must be fulfilled. Voldemort will return, and he will prove too difficult for me to combat after the battle with Gellert. Ah, Gellert…_

Dumbledore drifted off into happy recollections of his halcyon, hedonist days with his partner for a few minutes before he remembered what he was doing. He flipped to another page.

_Hermione Granger. A prodigy. Complete eidetic memory, probably because of the influence of her magic. Socially inept. Bullied by her peers, too afraid to report it to any authorities. She will be a problem at Hogwarts. Too reliant on books. The Muggleborn will inadvertently insult Pureblood families and become known as a know-it-all. Perhaps I should restrain her with one Ronald Weasley. It would help tame her, make her acceptable to most of the students. Ronald will teach her the ways of the Wizarding World, and she will make an acceptable wife. She should be sorted into Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw – a meeting with Ronald and Harry will do it. She will be desperate enough to be with the first two friends she makes – more of acquaintances – that she will beg the Sorting Hat to enter Gryffindor. Harry needs no encouragement – Ronald will influence him to choose Gryffindor over any houses, and since Harry is desperate for friendship, it will all work out._

_Ronald Weasley. A prat. Lazy. Gluttonous. But still useful. He has some measure of courage – that should sort him into Gryffindor along with Hermione and Harry, since he has none of the traits the other houses have. Not magically powerful. Average or below average aptitude in every subject offered at Hogwarts except possibly Muggle Studies, if only due to his father._

He shook his head, attempting to banish the drowsiness from his body.

_Last one then for tonight._

"**Note: Review obtained information at Ball in the Pensieve as soon as possible."**

A quill wrote the words on a piece of parchment. Dumbledore placed his wand to his head and withdrew the relevant memories and placed them within the Pensieve before returning to the Book.

_Evan Zabini. A strange one. More mature than most adults, albeit having some childish moments. Plays the piano rather well. Ancient Runes prodigy, and fluent in Old English, Old Norse, Latin, Sanskrit, Welsh, Italian and Chinese according to reports and his family members. Shows some proficiency in French, but he appears to be only starting on the language. Probably due to expensive Language Lozenges, but he must have spent time on practicing them, since the effects will fade without frequent usage of the language. Very suspicious for one so young to be such a polyglot. Must investigate that. Also trained in Occlumency – as are all children of the prominent Pureblood families. His magic is average for children of his age, though more refined. A possible Muggle sympathiser. Well-spoken, careful in the usage of words. Evan will most probably go to Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Correction: Evan will go to Ravenclaw. Blaise will go to Slytherin, being the Zabini heir, and garner connections for his future. Evan will continue drawing attention away from Blaise, and that will benefit the Zabini family in the long run._

_Evan will interfere with Hermione. His mind is sharp – he may have detected my Legilimency probe even at a moderate level of subtlety. He will most probably compete with her in academic matters. No matter. Hermione will be more dependent on Harry and Ronald. I will have to find some way of ensuring that she does not engage Harry in a romantic relationship. Perhaps Ginevra will serve as an obstacle. A year does not such a relationship make, after all. I will allow Harry to spend part of the summer at the Weasleys', then._

XxXxX

**The Malfoy Manor. Morning. Yule. 21****st**** of December, 1988.**

I threw a book on Sumerian mythology to the side, frustrated by the esoteric cuneiforms used to write it. It was slow-going, using several books for cross-reference to translate the cuneiform – they could either represent concepts (concrete or abstract) or simply sounds. No scholar, Wizarding or non-Wizarding, had completed translating the Sumerian cuneiforms fully, and different writers had views on what the translations should be. One of the Malfoys' house-elves picked it up before it touched the ground, dusting it with a feather-duster before replacing it on the shelf.

"Don't touch anything on the table, Dobby."

The house-elf nodded before Disapparating. Just then, Draco came into the library, his broom floating by his side, appearing almost eager to be ridden.

"Evan! If you can't play Quidditch, come and watch us instead of spending all your time in this stuffy place. You're not looking too well anyway," he gestured to the vexed expression on my face, "so you need fresh air. It isn't that cold out there."

I acquiesced, snatching a self-refilling quill and some parchment from the table before running out after Draco. I nearly collided with his father. Thankfully, he was preoccupied with a letter from the Minister of Magic – probably another request for 'funds' or a donation to a 'charity' (said charity giving a portion of all received monies to Cornelius Fudge, naturally) – and simply muttered "On your way then, boy" after I hastily apologised.

It goes without saying that Draco had a top-tier Quidditch field with a few stands at each side. There were features such as cushioning charms on every square inch of the field, Snitches and Bludgers with customisable difficulty levels and magical recording equipment that could give a play-by-play analysis (albeit analytic in nature) and as many statistics as anyone could wish for.

I waved at the two teams of seven, each composed of some of the children of the families in the three factions in the Wizengamot, before joining Neville (who had been poisoned by a strange hybrid he himself had created, and was thus recuperating and in no condition to be physically active). Quidditch was not very fascinating to one such as myself, since the basic premise was rather flawed.

_Instead of ending the game when the Snitch is caught, a time limit should be imposed. Perhaps an hour and a half, just like football matches? Catching the Snitch will win points equivalent to Chasers scoring fifteen times. That's really stupid. Too much importance is accorded to the Seeker. He gets most of the glory._

"You alright, Neville?"

He winced, remembering the spores that had been blasted into his face after he prodded a benign-looking bulb with a small glass rod one time too many. The symptoms had included incontrollable regurgitation of all his meals and a nasty rash that covered his entire body.

"Yes… I think."

"Want me to try to fix something up for you, just to relieve any irritation or pain?"

"No need. Gran says a bit of pain's fine, it'll just toughen me up."

"If you say so…"

I leant back on the cushioned seat, idly watching Malfoy dart around the field, most probably imitating every professional Seeker in the most horrifying and aesthetically unpleasing (due to his relative inexperience) way possible, while the other members of his team attempted to score against the Keeper again and again. Crabbe and Goyle were flying upside-down around the field, hitting the Bludgers while attempting to right themselves.

A quick scribble on the parchment to craft a rough rune array and a magical cigarette lighter (the proper term was Smeltington's Excellent Pipe Lighter – used by gentlewizards since the 1600s!) to provide an initial burst of energy, the catalyst, was all that I required to amplify my voice.

"Draco! If you continue doing that, you'll tire yourself out –"

I cut off the rest of my words as I noticed his father walking towards me, gesturing for me to approach him.

"I'll be right back, Draco, Neville."

I burnt the parchment, following Lucius Malfoy as he turned and returned to the Manor, entering his office. As he sat down on his chair, I stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak.

"**Evan Zabini. Draco says you have… something to ask of me."**

"Yes." A pause, to consider the next few words correctly.

"I have need of an unregulated Time-Turner. I know you can obtain one for me."

A slightly raised eyebrow to signify some measure of surprise, then he regained his composure.

"**And what do you offer in return?"**

I took a deep breath, knowing that the next few words would be of utmost importance.

"I have a clue to the location of the current home of Harry James Potter."

I enjoyed the look of extreme surprise on his face – it wasn't often one got to see that, after all. It was something totally unexpected, something he had never expected me to say. But this was a gamble. If I told him the clue, he would pass it to Voldemort once his Lord was resurrected, and Harry Potter would not be safe. In the near future, he could use it against Dumbledore – I did not know what kind of person Dumbledore was, but I had a vague idea of a deluded master manipulator, one on the brink of a God complex, tempered by rationality and over a century of experience. But I judged it to be a safe gamble, one that I could win. Harry Potter would return to the Dursleys after Voldemort rose, but I could cause a gas incident.

"**Ah. And how would I know that you would be telling the truth?"**

"You will be able to prove the truth of what I tell you on the day the Hogwarts Express leaves for Hogwarts with all the students. Until then, I will not say anything more."

He remained silent for a minute, allowing me to feel nervousness, anxiety and an urge to finish the deal as fast as possible.

"**The Department of Mysteries is… not as easy to obtain something from, especially a Time-Turner. I can give you an exception based on your academic prowess. You know enough runes to do what you want to do. You will tell me the rest of the information on September First."**

The unspoken "or else" was implied.

"Harry Potter lives in Number 4 with a Muggle family, who mistreats him. If Draco can avoid antagonising him inadvertently, you will know more. I will send you a letter then."

"**Be off, then."**

XxXxX

**Night.**

"Are you sure this is safe?"

Draco spoke in a whisper, a faint fearful tone present.

"It is said Odin rewards one who participates in the Wild Hunt willingly and sincerely, and punishes any person who mocks it or impedes it deliberately. If we survive, that is."

Draco and Blaise both frowned, displaying an unusual nervousness in their body language. I ignored it. The tales told of Odin were many, but _Rúnatal Óðins_, the stanzas in _Hávamál_ that spoke of how he obtained the runes, was of utmost interest to me. That was the reason I wanted to risk myself in the Wild Hunt, doing something few had done before.

"You may leave if you do not want to risk your life."

Blaise turned almost immediately.

"Goodbye then, Evan. I will not tell Mother about this unless you do not return. Do try, though. I know you well enough that stopping you would be useless – you have a reason for this, and I will not interfere. Draco, come along. Your father will be displeased if he hears of this."

The Zabinis were unaccustomed to showing emotion, and a potential last farewell would not deter Blaise from adhering to the unspoken rule.

Draco cast one last look at me before hurrying after Blaise.

"See you all later… I hope."

I was ready for the Wild Hunt. Or rather, I hoped I was ready. I had created defensive arrays, myriad runes written all over my own body and clothes to protect them from the dangers I could gleam from the old tales (and a few more). My wand was safely secured in a holster attached to my wrist. I reviewed the few spells I could cast with at least a small degree of proficiency (having focused mainly on other areas of magic). _Aguamenti. Expulso. Arresto Momentum. Incendio._

My forte was not in magnitude, for I would never be a powerhouse like Voldemort or Albus Dumbledore. What I had was precision in spades. _Aguamenti_ could be restructured as a thin, high-pressure stream of water that could cut through soft tissue in an instant. _Expulso_ was normally a spell that caused explosions, but I had adapted it to exert pressure in a single point or in a small area, greatly improving its piercing capacity. _Arresto Momentum_ could stop a person's heart. I could not set fire to an entire building with _Incendio_ without falling unconscious, but producing a small flame of high intensity was within my meagre abilities.

"_**Evan Zabini."**_

The wind howled, bringing with it the smell of mead and cold metal, the howls of the hunting hounds and warriors of Valhalla; I met Odin in his eyes for a moment before nodding. A shiver ran through my body involuntarily as he continued to stare at me; power immeasurable lay burning behind that single eye. Was it not true that the diminution of one's faculties simply concentrated one's powers behind what remained?

"Well met, Lord Odin."

His eye swept over my appearance.

"_**I see you bear my runes, child. Wear them well, for tonight we hunt Draugar."**_

Tales of the dead men with superhuman strength, the ability to shape-shift, and a body that emitted a constant stench of death and decay, one that could literally corrode my fragile, mortal flesh from my bones, flashed through my mind, but I steeled myself. I wanted something, and Odin could give it to me. I tried not to dwell on the powers they were _said_ to have – seeing the future, albeit in a limited fashion, and controlling the weather to facilitate the temporary satiating of their eternal hunger.

I took his hand, and we were off, off into the cold night, against the winds of ill fortune; exhilaration and joy in the wind rushing through my hair soon took over the fears, and I shouted (with a higher-pitched voice) with the others who rode with me. It soon became a blur, as we travelled over hill and glen, one filled with roars and constant mead-fuelled singing of snatches of Norse songs that, as unintelligible as they were, still made sense to me subconsciously: they spoke of Wild Hunts long past, of the coat of intermingled blood and sweat a _berserkr _would wear after a battle, and of the Bloodwrath that sang in their veins, always eating away at the multitude of chains that normality, mundane peaceful matters, _l'ennui terrible_, would throw over their bodies and minds.

And then we stopped, cutting off the flow and containing all of the built-up excitement within our bodies. We had arrived at the barrows of the Draugr, who were already creeping out in force, their forms shifting every now and then according to their whims; a frail hag, an anthropomorphic wolf resembling the _Úlfhéðnar__, wolf-skinned berserkers who took on forms betwixt man and wolf, and a dwarf of dark countenance, short and stout. Here it may be noted that, unlike chocolate teapots, Draugr tend to succeed at killing most they meet._

Odin hefted his spear Gungnir and threw it over the soon-to-be battlefield, mimicking his action at the very beginning of the Ӕsir-Vanir war.

"_**I dedicate this battle to Odin."**_

It plunged into the chest of a fully awaken Draugr before returning to Odin, its blade and length as clean as the day it was forged.

The warriors of Valhalla charged into battle first, their shields and all manner of weaponry raised high; a morning-star here, an axe there, a hammer not unlike Mjolnir, but barely approaching the power of the Eitri-forged creation. All roared, filled with the exhilaration of war.

Their battle-scarred skin would withstand the corrosive effect of the Draugr's fumes, but mine would not. My defences would only hold for so long, as I had not the time to tailor them to specifically counter the gases that, upon making contact with moisture, would turn into deadly acids. I made a mental note to stock up on useful chemicals before turning to attack them.

"_Incendio_."

Miniscule capsules of flame found their way into the throats of the seven Draugr who were only just emerging from their own barrows, igniting the flammable gases that were created upon decomposition of their bodies. They would stay down for a minute or so while they regenerated – enough time for the warriors to cut them down. Sheathing my wand, I moved closer to the fray, grasping a spear one of them had passed to me. I became more prone to panic the closer I went to the Draugr, becoming nauseous after breathing in the tiniest part of the fumes before the air filters I had set up went to work.

As inexperienced I was in the art of the spear, I managed to down one by chance. A Draugr broke through the ranks in the form of a giant, and an well-aimed Expulso broke through both of his knees, sending him down to the ground. In my unsettled state, I rushed at him, shouting incoherently, so caught up was I, and heedless of the danger that such an idiotic action would provide to myself, started to stab him in the face, one hand grasping the spear and plunging it down on him, the other holding my wand and waving it wildly in the air.

"Gah!"

A tentacle caught me the next moment, pulling forcefully at my leg, but I cut through it with another _Incendio_ even as I fell. The giant had shape-shifted into a large octopus, and was attempting to capture and devour me. The next instant, I had cast an _Aguamenti_, and I tore through the soft tissue of the gargantuan octopus, slicing it into half with ease.

"Yes! Oh, for goodness' sake…"

The tentacle, wrapped in glowing ooze that was about as corrosive as the gases, had initiated a cascading collapse of the defensive wards on myself. Later, I would review my wards, and determine that the acids had upset the balance between stability and defensive power to such an extent that my wards drew too much power from the rune arrays that kept me breathing clean air, initiating a failsafe that reduced the magic intake of the defensive wards. They soon failed after that, and the backlash collided with my other wards and took them out.

Then I breathed in the gases, and collapsed to the ground, coughing out what I could, saliva dripping from my mouth (a biological mechanism used to maintain the pH level of the mouth at a normal range, given that saliva acts as a buffer solution, but wholly useless in this situation) as I grasped and scratched at my throat, yearning to erase the burning sensations within. It overpowered my mind to such an extent that I could not even sense the gaping wound on my leg that had opened when the severed tentacle _brushed_ at it.

Then a firm hand grasped my shoulder, and the cessation of pain was so sudden that I collapsed on the ground, a mess of sweat and Draugr body fluids.

"_**Stand, boy. There are still more to fight."**_

I watched as runes flowed from where he touched me in the form of lines, glowing whenever they intersected with each other, restoring and optimising my wards. He walked forwards, continuing to throw his spear again and again.

My throat and nasal passages would still feel burnt, and I would have an infected leg wound, but I would still survive. A low-powered _Aguamenti_ cleaned it as best as I could, and one of the warriors who were less battle-hungry bandaged it swiftly before running towards the remaining foes.

I rested there, on the body of a slowly disintegrating octopus/Draugr, for a few moments before lifting up the spear again, moving towards the slowly advancing line, where the Draugr and Asgardians still fought.

"_Expulso_. _Arresto Momentum._"

The words came as a whisper, barely audible in the cacophony of battle, but they soon made their effects known.

Holes appeared in place of eyes, blinding the creatures for a few moments. Draugr about to deal the killing blow struggled against the magic I had placed into the binding spell, slowing down enough for their foes to escape and counter any further attacks.

An hour before dawn, the last one was finally killed. I was already tired out before then, and lay against the side of an old ash, attempting to draw enough air into my lungs, fighting against the pain that came with every breath.

"_**Drink, child."**_

I gulped greedily at the golden mead offered to me, feeling a momentary cooling sensation as it flowed over the acid-burnt tissue. It gave me enough strength to struggle to my feet and, with ample help, get up on the horse that had brought me there.

The return journey was swift, but Odin led my horse to a secluded grove near the Malfoy Manor before I would leave.

"_**You have survived the Wild Hunt, child. But with my help. I cannot offer you much then, except a word of advice."**_

I nodded.

"_**I have seen your heart, and I see a hard path in front of you. Take up my mantle then, as a few have done so. Hang on the tree – but not Yggdrasil, for that is not yours. Find your tree with unknown roots. Apotheosis, in a manner. You will gain much, but you will sacrifice a part of yourself permanently. Fare you well, Evan."**_

XxXxX

A/N: There. I will not deign to respond to flames. However, I will accept proper criticism. If you think my SI character is becoming too OP, well, you should see how much I've given Voldemort, Dumbledore, and pretty much every other antagonist in future chapters. Until then, farewell.


End file.
